Impressions in Clay
by Taluliaka
Summary: Clay Morrow leaves an impression, for better or worse. Series of vignettes. Rated for blood and language.
1. Jax

**Impressions in Clay**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _I do not own Sons of Anarchy._

_**1. Jax.**_

* * *

><p>Jax is riding hard against the dawn wind, the cold road under his wheels. There are streamers of pink in the sky. The breeze cuts his face; his lips are numb. But he pushes harder, stubborn, vicious. He's trying to pare himself down to the core, make himself marble, steel, unforgiving concrete. Something to shred bone and shed blood. He opens the throttle. The motorcycle howls beneath him, and Jax feels it buck under his hands. He's riding the beast, one that don't forget and don't forgive, the one he used to dream about as a kid, biting, howling animals that long to drown you on that black asphalt, that smear your daddy all over the highway.<p>

He keeps seeing the gleam of wet flesh at the back of Donna's head, all lit up by police lights. He keeps thinking that such a sweet, vibrant woman shouldn't have come to her end like that, with her brain lit up red-blue for all to see on the bloody street.

He's got a hard knot of anger in his chest, and it crawls up his throat when he has to sit at that table and meet Clay's eyes, when he has to ride beside Tig. When he has to meet Opie's eyes, and lie through his goddamn teeth about his wife's killers.

It's not that he hasn't got a solution. Piney made that real clear. It's not like he can't lay somewhere in wait for Tig- catch him when he's off guard, drunk or drugged. He'll push the barrel of his gun between those ice-cold eyes and let out his brains for everyone to poke at.

It's not like he can't wait for Clay to be alone-lighting a stogie, taking one of his late-night rides to fend off those bloodbath dreams-and let light into that grey head.

It's not like-

But there's something catching at him, taking him from that clear purpose, the empty road. And its name is Abel.

Now that's something to see- Clay and Abel. He's taken him to heart like he's blood, loves him in an unguarded way that fascinates Jax. It's not that he thinks Clay doesn't have a heart, he just always imagined it cold, guarded in ice and chain. He loves Gemma, and Jax knows that, in his way, Clay loves him as well, but the love for his baby was fierce and immediate.

Even when Jax was expecting a phone call hour to hour telling him the kid was dead- too small, too weak, come at the wrong place at the wrong time to a fucked up set of parents- he remembers Clay over Abel's toaster, watching him. Like there was something worth watching there, before Jax ever saw it himself.

Something about family.

Something about blood.

"_Fuck_," Jax snarls into the wind, feeling the tears on his cheeks and willing them away as hard as he can.

He gave up on his kid. And he's giving serious thought to killing the one man who didn't.

_Clay killed Donna-_

Abel does his best gummy smiles for Clay, and there's always that flash of surprise in his stepfather's eyes before he grins back.

_Donna, her brains on the pavement, Opie screaming-_

Gemma's told him that when Abel's fussy and won't settle during the day, she'll find an excuse to give him to Clay and come back ten minutes later to find him sound asleep. It's something to do with Clay's voice, Gemma says, and his hands, and his presence, something soothing. He feels safe.

_But Donna-_

And Jax remembers them drinking in the shadows of the afternoon, stretching out the kinks in the last shards of sun, Clay bouncing Abel on his knee and laughing at something Bobby had said. How he had passed Abel to Happy, sitting grimly to one side, in Charming for business not pleasure, casually, so he had both hands to light up a cigar. He had shades on, but Jax caught the cunning look in his eyes all the same, as the conversation continued and the afternoon became evening and Happy's shoulders began to relax as he held the kid on his lap, bouncing him absently. How he began to join in the talk and the joking and lay down the burden of his Club.

"_Fuck!_"

Jax slams on his brakes, lets the tyres smoke, heaves the weight of his bike around to point back towards Charming. He's aware he's breathing heavily, that his fingers are shaking and his arms are tired. That crystal control he was looking for has smashed itself all to pieces. He's gone days without sleep over this, and it comes to him now that he wants to be home, looking in at Abel sleeping in his crib. He thinks that if he does that, his heart might stop slamming and he might get to relax his jaw a bit. That he might get to just relax, in fucking general, a bit.

Right now, Jax wants his kid. He can work all this shit out later, work it round in his head on the roof of the garage, or in Abel's room with his dad's book. He can't do it now, tearing his body up before sunrise, burning all his fuel and his temper along with it, then expect to make rational decisions.

He heads back to Charming, and the new sun above his head burns away all the dark left in the sky.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_I don't know why I bother explaining myself any longer. My mind skips onto things like a broken record, goes everywhere like when you knock shit in a box over. And right now I've gone crazy for SOA, because it's an awesome show. In particular, I absolutely adore Clay, both because I love Ron Perlman (I mean come on, he's Hellboy) and I love his badass character. So I have decided to do some impressions of him from other characters. May develop into a plot. May have no definite plot at all. _

_As for this chapter, getting dangerously close to fluff, but Clay and Abel are adorable together. The big bad biker boss playing with a little baby in S2.02 nearly broke both my and A.J Weston's brains. Set somewhere early Season 2._

_Concrit always appreciated._

**_Taluliaka._**


	2. Gemma

**Impressions in Clay**

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Sons of Anarchy._

_**2. Gemma.**_

* * *

><p>Gemma's roaming the halls like a dark spirit when she sees the reaper. She's been watching the other people go by, clutching their flowers and goddamn stuffed bears, laughing and talking. She wants to spit at them, wants to shove them up against one of these walls and make them feel just a bit of what's tangled up inside her. She wants them to beg, scream, cry, rage. She wants them to burn out and get that painful numbness in their gut, to know what it feels like when the world all goes to shit and there's no one there to make it right.<p>

And she's watching them, hating with such force it's a bitter taste in her mouth, when the reaper glides into view, leering its hack-toothed grin, a patch of darkness amongst the whirl of the corridor. Gemma kicks off the wall with her boot, strides after the retreating back. Wonders what the hell she's doing as she calls after him.

"Clay!"

He's turning even before she's done saying his name, some of that perceptive Vietnam shit she's never tried to understand. There's an angry twist to the edges of his mouth, and Gemma knows he's itching for a smoke without even asking.

"Hey, Gem."

His eyes are cold and there's blood on the sleeve of his shirt. She eyes it.

"That yours?"

He tilts his head. They're blocking the passage now, and people are spilling past like the sea around rocks. Immovable. No one asks them to step aside. Not with the rage rolling in both of them. Not with the reaper grinning on his back.

"Nah. Was dealing with something."

"Saint Thomas got a vermin problem?"

He looks at her strangely. Under that gaze she shifts, planting her feet. She's poking into Club business, spoiling for a fight. Clay's usually happy to oblige, his temper easily broken on the edge of her tongue. Her head throbs under the bright hospital lights. Instead, his voice, when it comes, is soft.

"What's wrong, Gem?"

She presses a fist in between her eyes, forcing back tears. She's not gonna cry in front of him and half the damn hospital.

"Did...did you get through to John?"

"Nah. Been tryin' all day. Bad connection, or something."

"_Shit_."

She needs a cigarette so bad it's making her fingers shake. She can feel his gaze burning on her, and pulls away, tugging his cut. Gemma doesn't look to see if he's following, she just shoves the nearest door and discovers she's sought refuge in the hospital chapel, which is a fucking joke in itself. What's happening here tonight has nothing to do with the God she grew up hearing about. There's an old guy in one of the pews and she catches the confusion in his dark eyes as she paces the room, trapped and angry. He stops watching her pretty quick once Clay shoulders into the room. Gemma doesn't notice much anymore, that effect that her boys have on the townsfolk, but Clay does look pretty fucking scary looming there in the entrance. The old man takes his leave quick as he can hobble, and Clay sits on one of the seats and watches her pace the aisle with his eyebrows hiked up to his hairline, one hand already reaching for his stash of stogies.

"What's the matter?" he asks, and his voice takes that particular dip he employs when he's talking to garage customers, the one that knocks people off guard, makes them look beyond the cut.

She tries to light a joint, but her thumb keeps slipping. She's flushed, wired and jittery with that anger looming like a black abyss below. The lighter slips to the carpet and she swears viciously, feels her self-control coming apart at the seams because it's her boy- it's her little boy and he's not going to be able to come home. She stumbles away up the aisle, spins on her heel and nearly runs straight into Clay's chest. He's holding out her lighter, flame dancing on the top, and her first suck of that smoke smoothes away all those jagged edges of emotion. Clay's head bends to hers.

"This about Tommy?"

Gemma flinches, sighs.

"Yeah. Doc says it's only a matter of time. He's not going to live 'til tomorrow."

Her own savage tones frighten her, and she counters them by drawing on her cigarette hard and fast. Clay's cigar burns crimson in the dim light, forgotten for a minute, before he raises it to his mouth. His eyes fix on hers.

"You want me to stay?"

She should say no –but fuck it. On this night, if she can't have John, Gemma wants someone with her for this, because she's not sure what's gonna be left by morning.

"Yeah."

And they draw in the smoke like it's life force, the only thing keeping them from the edge.

And that's what she remembers years later, the memories all curled around each other, so when she thinks on it, it doesn't stab as hard as she knows it can.

She lost her boy, and Clay stayed for her.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: _Thanks go to daughter of anarchy and Tempest2004 for the reviews. (Tempest look out in the next chapter for a Hellboy reference :) ) Thanks also to lederra, Savil9899, Catus and Asbo29 for Alerting me and this story. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Based on a little historical tidbit Gemma drops in Season 3: that John Teller was in Belfast while Tommy was slipping into a coma in Charming. I just added Clay to the mix. _

_Concrit always appreciated,_

**_Taluliaka._**


	3. Ethan Zobelle

**Impressions in Clay**

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Sons of Anarchy._

_**3. Ethan Zobelle.**_

* * *

><p>Ethan Zobelle lies uneasy above Budapest's streets. By day there are the impersonal confines of his hotel room, and he staggers blindly against the walls, searches out that missing flesh-and-blood ghost that haunts his every minute –<em>why weren't you on time Polly why didn't you come to me<em>- and his disturbed gaze paints her in pastels and roses and lightning flashes, but his fingers caress air only. Beneath his feet there are empty bottles, and they shatter and in the lengthening shadows each one glints with prismatic beauty which he studies like a puzzle. They won't ever go back together again, bright and brilliantly broken.

He just has to adjust and adapt, adjust and adapt, that's why he's on his knees here, with the glass biting at him, blood between his fingers like rain as he pieces together their broken forms, smearing and dulling their cruel light, and if he tries-

_You weren't on time baby, and I had to go_

-if he tries hard enough, she'll be there when he turns around, flicking her hair from her eyes the way her mother used to, laughing at the game he plays on the purple rug, eager to be walking the streets again. He cries to God in his heart, raises his voice until it breaks with the strain- _You give her back, my God, my God, don't You take her from me_- and his only answer is the thunder of his own heart, like it's about to tear itself out.

And when the light goes he snatches for the pills, and they roll under couches and across the tiles and they sting his tongue. They are so bitter, so bitter, and the world seems so very far away.

And then the dreams begin.

Clay Morrow is always there, and he's always smoking one of Ethan's cigars. His face, all shadowed and dark and silver, never fails to bring a kick of nausea to his gut. He is always restrained, against a wall whose chill reminds him of pale graveyard stone, that eats into his flesh and hollows him out. There is a smell hanging on the air, one that he knows in that certain way you have in dreams is rotting flesh. Sometimes Clay has a chair. Sometimes he sits at a desk, this huge out-of-place wood piece like he's conducting an interview, and he tears at the splinters with a huge, broad-bladed knife. Sometimes he grins, viciously, and the shock of his white teeth in that hellish place makes his stomach lurch.

But Clay never touches him. That's the Reaper's job. It comes, and with its coming there begins a black despair, deep in Ethan's chest, and he begins to beg before it's even free of the shadows. It looks exactly like the skeleton from the club's patch, only it towers, seven, eight feet tall, and it drags itself jerkily, and it smells like flesh flayed and pared down to wet bone and its eyes are an abyss. It uses its scythe like a crutch to propel its deformed body forward, and each time the butt hits the stone floor the scythe blade rings out a cold high note.

The Reaper can't speak- how can it with everything rotted away- but it laughs, this shivery fractured wheeze that builds until inside it he can hear Polly's screams as she dies alone, dies screaming for her father. And it comes closer and closer, until it's upon him, putrid, rotting, and the scythe blade rolls down to split his guts.

Every night he is torn to pieces, and Clay watches silently, and smokes, and grins to himself. Sometimes, Clay's eyes spark yellow, or red, or he has horns branching into the blackness on either side of the room, like the antlers of a stag, or he doesn't seem to be there at all, like a wet sack filled with bulging, writhing creatures in some crude mockery of a human being.

Clay clicks his lighter, and a tiny yellow flame sparks into life. And Ethan stares at it, projects himself from the torture of his body, ignores how it spills on the floor beneath him and how his bones are starting to rip apart. He stares at the flames and thinks –_O my God who hath not forsaken me please have mercy on Your servant here and deliver me from this hell. For You are with me even in this place, and I believe in Thy will and wisdom in all things-_ And Clay laughs, his eyes like lamps in the blackness, and snuffs out that tiny flame with a terrible humour in his horrible eyes, snuffs out all hope of escape, and leaves him with the Reaper in the blackness.

And the day begins again, only now Ethan paces and he catches sight of himself accidentally in a mirror and recoils at that grey-fleshed, mad-eyed creature that stumbles from room to room, raving to himself. And he thinks and he says and he believes: He has to die.

_-He has to die. He has to die.-_

He sees himself again, reflected in foaming rage, the Reaper gloating as it pulls out his guts hand over hand. And behind him, Clay. Always him.

It's always him.

_-It's always him.-_

He's got to kill him. He's got to kill them both.

He hurls a chair at the twin faces and their smirks explode into shards.

And it is the Reaper he fears, the Reaper who is his blackest moments, his fears and hates and regrets, and he fears the man who wears it, unleashed it, controls it.

And a bullet in one means a bullet in the other, and didn't he leave Polly there by mistake? He should go back to Charming. He should go back and find his little girl and kill the Reaper so she won't be frightened anymore.

"Yes." He says, and the glass on the carpet is like newly fallen snow, except for where the blood turns it scarlet.

"_Yes_."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: _Thanks go to daughter of anarchy, Mistress Freak, lederra and P for the reviews, and to rochelle245 and Raven Morning for Alerting this story. Inspiration for this came from me wanting some karma to come around for Mr. Zobelle. I personally believe that Clay would have enjoyed watching an eight foot tall skeleton rip out Ethan's guts every night for what he did to Gemma, rather than the single bullet to the skull sort of revenge he was going to have to settle for in that deli. Originally, this chapter was going to be a cold and logical way in which Zobelle could want to get revenge on the SOA, but then he started taking drugs, and I've always wanted to see a fic in which the reaper on their cuts came to life. It's always more fun when the supernatural's involved. :) Also, I put in a Hellboy reference. And, I just realised, a Nightmare before Christmas reference. Which is odd. _

_Concrit always appreciated,_

**_Taluliaka._**


	4. Tig

**Impressions in Clay**

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Sons of Anarchy._

_**4. Tig.**_

* * *

><p>Tig matches Clay stride for stride across the carpark clawed with shadows. The air is cold and sharp, and there's smoke on the air. The president's patch might be a new addition to his cut, but Clay wields it like a weapon. No one's getting in his way tonight, and Tig's not stupid enough to try, though he mentions offhand when he reaches his bike,<p>

"You know it's a trap, right?"

The Dyna howling to life beside him is the only answer, and Tig lets one hand touch his knife hilt. Shit's going down tonight, and he's gonna be right in the thick of it. The boys came back to the clubhouse smoke-blackened and reeling, they've got friends dropping like flies, latest victim one of the mechanics, Fitz, roasted alive with his family by the wetbacks. Mayans are dropping everyone, anyone they can find, and what they're looking to do is demoralise, and Tig sees it working on his brothers, cutting 'em up inside. He saw those bodies brought out, crispy and black, skin peeling and teeth bared to the wind, and they slump round the redwood table and stare into nothing, and drink. So death's a fucking ugly bitch, and they've all looked her in the face more than once, but it ain't sitting there staring that's gonna win them this war.

And that's why Clay's the right man, made sense to put him in the top chair when Charming's tearing itself apart, 'cause there has to be someone that can bend in this wind without breaking. Tig saw JT fail, saw him softening up, riddled with holes –and he forgot what comes first, what always comes first. And now he's dead, and Clay's boss, and already they've routed the Mayans twice, ambushed once and split their brown guts over half of Cali. Things are looking up, so that's why Tig's worried as he's heading out behind Clay's bike, already scanning the street for some wetback trap, 'cause this doesn't make sense to him.

He knows lockdown's a good idea, the only idea, get the boys back on their feet and not seeing their families stretched out one by one in between every shot, but what he doesn't get is why Clay needs to go get Gemma and the kid personally, when every Mexican shithead in Northern Cali is looking to blow his head off. He rides with one hand on his gun, and thinks every flash of light is a muzzle shot and every fucking sound is them being followed. JT's barely cold in his grave, but Clay's had a thing for Gem for a long time and anyone with eyes can see what she feels for him. Still, Tig's heart is jacking like his veins are full of speed, not blood, and he knows the confrontation, when it comes, is gonna be one ugly fucker.

* * *

><p>Gemma's house looms silent and black, and Tig's on the driveway peering into every shadow, his gun held low and ready to blow a hole through the first Mayan to stick up his ugly head. Clay's thumping soft as he can on the front door, and though he doesn't turn his head, Tig sees the light spill out from the hall as it opens. He tunes out their conversation, though he does hear the urgency in Clay's, and the surprise in Gem's, listening to the street and the huge silence of the stars slipping overhead. He really, really hopes they're hurrying. The outline of the kid jitters across the light, and Tig sees a man stride out of the darkness, and reacts.<p>

"CLAY!" he roars over his shoulder as the guy opens fire, sprinting left to reach the cover of a tree standing lopsided in the front yard. He fires twice, a scream bugles up from the street, and someone howls a stream of orders in mangled Spanish. The light from the hall is streaming straight out now, meaning Clay's gotten Gem and the kid to the ground.

Tig can't see anybody from where he's crouching, but when someone jogs up the lawn to his right he fires into the blocky torso and sends the Mexican rolling, just in case they're pinned down on the front deck. The air's full of gunfire, there must be ten, twelve, guys out there, dressed in black, invisible against the sleeping street, and Tig bares his teeth and strains his eyes. The fuck on the lawn rattles his last breath in his throat, and there, three guys sprinting, charging the house full on, and Tig hears the wonderful sound of Clay's gun booming out, sending one of the guys shrieking like steam escaping from a kettle to the gravel where he bucks and jerks. The other two split, disappearing around the sides of the house, and Tig knows they mean to come through the back door, and wipe 'em all out.

He shifts forward, sees a clearing and runs for the front door in a hail of bullets, ripping past him and splintering the house's facade. He's still running when Clay rises from behind the hedge and pours out covering fire, prompting a slew of furious bellows Tig doesn't grasp from the Mayan crew in the road, it just howls past his ears, and then he's on the deck, wood thumping beneath his boots, and he's pushing the kid back into the house, the kid's eyes wide and white with fear, and Gemma's lips parted but silent like a scream's bursting to get out but she won't let it, and Clay pushes her inside and slams the door behind them.

"Oh my God," Gemma gasps and then the windows behind her shatter and she flings herself to the floor, Jax's blonde head under her arm. Tig lunges to his feet, looking towards the back door, and sure as shit the two of the crew he saw running before have pushed their way in and he fires at one but the fucker jerks his black head back behind a wall.

"Come on!" Tig yells, and holding his gun out straight he takes two strides forward and then leaps for cover as the other Mayan responds to the bait and gets off a shot before Clay's bullet takes off most of his head and he goes down. Tig makes a mistake then, he's forgotten the broken front window behind him, and the next instant the whole side of his head explodes with white pain as a bullet slices past, missing his skull by inches. He half-falls, half-drops and spins onto his back, firing a shot straight into the mouth of the Mexican at the window, sending him staggering back, his mouth burning white and red like some crazy Jack-o-lantern.

And because of his mistake, Clay's unguarded and Tig watches in horror as the Mexican in the back room hits him twice, and the grin on that dog's brown face as he steps forward makes Tig want to rip it off and peel him down to bone. Tig's skull is still white-hot with pain, and he smears blood into his eyes trying to clear his vision, and the Mayan steps into the living room and points his gun straight at Jax, lying next to his mother, and Tig snarls and fills the fucker's head with lead. By then Clay is back on his feet, firing out one of the shattered windows, but the way he's hunched convinces Tig they've gotta get out soon. There's no way out front, so Tig hauls Gemma and the kid to their feet and they run down the hall heading for the backyard, and Tig catches Clay's eye and the grim look on his face has got to at least equal his own. Then a Mayan jumps out of nowhere, no gun, and Tig suddenly has a face full of Mexican fists, driving him back against the kitchen counter. The guy is crazy, split flying in Tig's face as he yells at him, and he's dropped his gun somewhere along the way, and for a moment he can't see Clay and fear rises up in him like a tidal wave and he bites deep into the side of the Mayan's neck, tearing out flesh that's rubbery between his teeth, and blood runs down his throat.

The Mayan screams in disbelief and Tig takes the opportunity to kick him off, send him to the floor, and then his heavy boot crunches down on his enemy's face three, four times until he cracks something vital. Tig locates his gun, burns his fingers on the hot metal and charges outside to find Clay trading shots with the Mayan crew while Gemma and the kid climb the neighbour's fence. They're only two yards from the corner where the bikes are, and he waits til Clay is safe before swinging over the fence and crushing at least half a flowerbed as they sprint headlong across the yard, the shots getting fainter as the Mayans lose something to shoot at and Tig bets they're still round the front shooting through the battered holes in the house's face. The next fence is higher, but still easy to climb, and Jax is moving like a trooper, jumping over like this is part of a kid's playground, and now they're on the footpath and just a few houses down are their bikes propped in the gutter.

Only now Tig becomes aware that the last wetback's torn something loose and his whole right arm is swinging loose and burning up with jabs of pain, but he's got no time to relocate the fucker; he's just going to have to ride one-handed. He swings onto his bike, drags Jax's arms around him, and there's yells and shots as the Mayan crew see them and start running, then Clay and he are howling up the street and though three guys try to cut them off from the clubhouse, it's gonna be a cold day in hell when a member of the Sons can't run rings around the wetbacks in their native waters, and next thing Tig knows they're pulling up safe inside the compound and someone's dragging the gate shut behind them and he can at last take the breath that's been sticking in his chest the past ten minutes as Jax's fingers release his waist and he sits back on his idling bike and sighs with relief.

* * *

><p>The next few hours are a blur. People keep pushing whisky into his hand and his arm gets relocated. Tig remembers sitting while someone pokes the shit out of the wound on his head, and he's got this warm, disconnected, dizzy feeling that could be alcohol and could be blood loss. He also remembers yelling at Clay while Clay's getting a slug dug out of his shoulder, and having the huge hole in his side stitched up where another bullet blew straight through, and feeling sick at the thought of the memory of Clay falling inside that house of broken glass and blood. And Clay isn't really listening to him because he's too busy staring at Gemma and Gemma's too busy holding his hand like she thinks reality's gonna tip away from under her, and she's gonna be back in that bloody house holding her kid's brain in her hands, surrounded by howling wetbacks.<p>

So Tig gives it up as a lost cause, for now at least, and finds himself outside drunk, numbed and happy in the company of his brothers, in the midst of what's quickly becoming one hell of a party, and they all ignore the war that's banging on their gates for a while, which Tig is good with, especially when he's got a sweetbutt in each arm and a night that seems to be stretching out forever.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: _Thanks go to Raven Morning, Tempest2004, Daughter of Anarchy and Mistress Freak for reviewing, and everyone who potentially alerted/favourited this story that I cannot remember right now. I've been dying to have a go at Tig-voice, but also kind of worried I'd get it wrong, so that's why there's so much action in this chapter. I hope his loyalty to Clay came through anyway, which was the point of this chapter. So whoever requested Tig-voice, this is for you! This is based in the Mayan/Sons war of the early 90's, and I judge this roughly to be maybe late Nov/early Dec of '93, after JT's death. Clay mentions in S1 in 'Old Bones' that there was two years of conflict after he became president where 'he didn't have time to think a lot of shit through.' This was one of those times, when the Mayans went after anyone close to the Sons. It wouldn't be too far fetched for them to go after Jax, only son of the former president, and his old lady. Hope it was a fun read._

_Concrit always appreciated,_

**_Taluliaka._**


End file.
